When the West Wind Moves
by Crunch
Summary: There were five thousand fists in the sky that day. . . his was the first.


When the West Wind Moves~ by Crunch  
  
I'm actually alright with how this one popped out. . . SO much so, that I'll reserve the standard "crappy-one-chappie" label for a better time. I've got a pretty good idea if it's slash, but it doesn't really matter either way, so tell me what you think. Read, be confused, stone me to death, enjoy.  
  
P.S.- to those loyal, hardy few who read All Brooklyn's Men (and to those fewer who care). . .  
  
It was Davey ;)  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
You'll remember me when the west wind moves  
  
Upon the fields of barley  
  
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky  
  
When we walked in fields of gold  
  
~*~  
  
"Hey, Jack. How's it rollin?" He looks good- tired, but stronger. No bow tie today- that's good. Always thought he looked like a real Daisy in a bowtie. . . probably split a rib if he wore one here, of all places. Aside from the yellowed skin of a few sleepless nights, he look flushed. it's cause he's got one of them fancy bouquets with him, the kind they don't sell on just any street corner.  
  
"Ya brought me flowers, Davey? You shouldn' a . . ." He puts em on the ground at my feet, and speaks up in this crackly kind a voice.  
  
"It's a real nice set up you have here, Jack. Really beautiful."  
  
"Yeah, an' da rents cheap. Price fer entry was hell though. . ." He don't answer me, just wrings his hands and looks away.  
  
"You should see the sky, buddy. It's really something." I look. He's right- it's something, the kind a colors you can only see when you close your eyes. Blue like Brooklyn, pink like Skittery's dumb-ass shirt, orange like the flowers.  
  
See, I love the city at Sunset. Don't much like the daytime, and the nights. . . they're hard on Davey. They're hard on all my boys, too. But I do love the sunset.  
  
"Jack. . . answer me, will you?"  
  
"I'm tryin, Davey. Cross me heart I am."  
  
"Please, Jack? I- I miss you."  
  
Hell, I know that much. But truth is, I think he's still mad at me. He thinks I gave up- on him, on everything. He thinks I'm a traitor, a scab, a quitter. He don't understand, and I don't blame him, but I still dunno what to say.  
  
He drops to the ground like a lead weight, and for a second I think his legs gave way, but then I realize what he's doing.  
  
"There were five thousand fists in the sky that day. His was the first. In the rising of the day and the going down of the sun, we shall remember him." he mumbles, and his eyes water. . . I notice they're the same blue as the sky.  
  
"Aw, Davey, don't cry." But he don't answer me, don't even try to hide his face, so I bend down, with my knees in the weeds and my face in his, and I hug him. How do you like that? My pop would call me a dirty queer if he could see me now, but he can't. So I pull my friend close, wrap my arms around him. He shivers- probably from the cold, but maybe, just maybe. . . For a second I think he might let loose anyways, and then I'd feel like a REAL queer, but he don't. Instead, he smiles, and looks up into the setting sun.  
  
"So do I, Jack. . ."  
  
~*~  
  
"Hey, Jack. How's it rollin?" I'm slipping into that old New Yawker accent more and more these days, and it makes me chuckle every time. But there's no reply from him- no offered spit shake, no cocky grin, no breezy laughter.  
  
Feeling awkward, unsure of what to say or do, I lay the flowers I've brought by his head. The florist winked at me when I handed her my dime; a wink that said 'have fun with your special someone'. I'd been tempted to protest, but really, Jack w. . . IS special. He stopped the world, for God's sake.  
  
"It's a real nice set up you've got here, Jack. Really beautiful." Still no answer, so I simply smile and turn my head, breathing in the scenery. Jack's come a long way from the streets of New York. It's not the place he dreamed himself being, not Santa Fe, but all the same, he's come a distance.  
  
Not that I'm surprised- I always knew he was meant for something better than the slums of Manhattan. All of those cold back alleys and dingy tenement houses- one big crater where the poor slipped in and tumbled together, never to claw their way out. But Jack, he made it out.  
  
Here, the honey colored sun sparkles across a patchwork of spring greens and earthy browns, and apple blossoms rest on tree branches like perched pink butterflies. No, it's not the wild western desert of Santa Fe, but still, it's beautiful. The kind of place a guy like Jack. . . I almost said deserves, but I caught myself. He didn't deserve this.  
  
I glance up at the horizon, squinting at the fire bursts of orange flooding my retinas- it's sunset. Jack does love the city at sunset.  
  
"You should see the sky, buddy. It's really something." But I don't think he looks, and he sure as hell doesn't respond.  
  
"Jack. . . answer me, will you?" He doesn't, and I didn't expect him to. Of course, I'd hoped. . . but the summer silence remains unbroken, save for the reedy sound of my footfalls on the grass as I move cautiously towards him. "Please, Jack? I- I miss you." And I do. I want things to be like they were between us, before. . . well, just before. I know he couldn't help what happened, and I know he didn't want to leave his boys- I do know that now. It doesn't make his leaving hurt any less, but for what it's worth. . .  
  
Something at my feet flashes in the dipping orange daylight, and I drop to my knees so quickly the warm wind stings my eyes. I run a hand over the cool slate surface of the headstone, tracing a finger along the familiar inscription. My eyes water as I read it aloud, and this time, it's not the wind.  
  
"There were five thousand fists in the sky that day. His was the first. In the rising of the day and the going down of the sun, we shall remember him."  
  
Denton wrote the second half, I wrote the first. I've never written anything stirring before, and I don't think I ever will again. So how it came to mind- I'm still not sure. Maybe sometimes, we just rise above ourselves. Then again, maybe it was Jack.  
  
Tears burn the backs of my eyes, and a lump like a jagged piece of coal rises from the depths of my throat.  
  
And then something happens, something right their in the middle of the cemetery, with crosses all around and the sky on fire. Something I can't explain, and don't really need to.  
  
Maybe it's the wind, or maybe it's something else entirely. . . but whatever it is, it feels warm. It feels like Jack.  
  
I turn my eyes to the sky.  
  
Jack always loved the city at sunset, you know. And now, as I feel his breath in the wind, and see his smile in the sky, and dream his dreams for him. . . "So do I, Jack. I love the sunset too."  
  
~*~  
  
Many years have passed since those summer days  
  
Among the fields of barley  
  
See the children run as the sun goes down  
  
Among the fields of gold  
When we walked in fields of gold. . .  
** * * * * * * * * * *  
  
*whisper* review *whisper* 


End file.
